


Five Conversations about a Revolution

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-03
Updated: 2008-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>rev·o·lu·tion, noun: For some: <i>a sudden or momentous change in a situation</i>. For others: <i>the overthrow of one government and its replacement with another</i>. For Remus Lupin: <i>a turning or rotational motion about an axis</i> – an axis with uncertain loyalties and motivations of his own.</p><p>13,500 words. R. Snape/Lupin, brief Lupin/OMCs, but mostly Lupin genfic as he runs around Eastern Europe in the '80s being political.  Written for the lupin_snape Fantasy Fest. August 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Conversations about a Revolution

**I. November 2, 1981. London.**

His wand hadn't stopped glowing a dull green for thirty-four hours, but Remus still couldn't bring himself to deactivate the Charm.

He did little but stare at it, pausing every few hours to shove a handful of crackers down his throat or sip from the same glass of warm water that had been sitting on the night table for at least a week. It was possible the wand was faulty, after all, although it had been probably a full day since he'd really believed that. Dumbledore had Owled. Even Hagrid had dropped in, sobbing great buckets all over the rough wooden floor while blubbering about the motorcycle and how _kind_ Sirius had been – nothing to indicate he was about to do what he ended up doing, Hagrid had assured Remus, who had nodded solemnly and shown him the door as quickly as possible.

At least the cat hadn't been by. She'd been sent off to Little Whinging, apparently, and thank Christ for it; he wasn't quite up to handling another Animagus at the moment.

No, there was no use arguing that the Charm wasn't solid. That was why he'd cast it in the first place, wasn't it? He'd wanted to know. The _second_ it happened, if it had to happen, he had wanted to know. Well, at least with the thing finally glowing this way, he could stop pulling it out of his fucking pocket every five minutes just to check it, trembling hands holding it in front of his face until he could bring himself to open his eyes. The rush of air out of his lungs had overwhelmed him every second it had remained its regular mahogany colour, the relieved yet still-panicked feeling of living on bought time lingering in his chest.

"Lily..." a strangled voice whispered from the darkness, and Remus hunched his shoulders where he sat on the edge of the bed. "God, no... no... _no_..."

He turned only belatedly, nearly incapable of it this time. The nightmares didn't only come at night anymore; they came every hour, every half-hour... whenever Severus was asleep, it seemed. And he'd been sleeping almost non-stop for two days now. Remus leaned down and laid his palm flat over Severus's bare back, sliding it down to where the sheets bunched around his waist and then back up, a light touch not quite intended to soothe and not quite intended to wake. They weren't much use to each other anymore, each mourning different ghosts.

Finally making the decision he'd been avoiding since the wand had begun to glow, he rose from the bed and dressed quietly, his fingers pausing to press over the angry bite marks Severus had left on him in a vicious fuck Halloween night, and to reminisce about the fingernail slices he himself had left, sobbing, on Severus in return. Selecting a piece of clean parchment from the wobbly writing table across from the bed, he picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write, his hand shaking less with each word.

Eight years. It was a random number, really, but in his current state, even a hundred years of solitude would be too few.

He folded it with a decisive pinch across the seam, sliding his thumb and forefinger over it before dropping it on the table. Then, he picked up his wand and held it cradled in front of him in his open palms for a moment, tilting his head to watch the thick, mottled green pulse with eerie life before his eyes. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and muttered two words at it.

"_Finite Incantatum_."

There was nothing for it anymore. James and Lily were dead, and Severus could not help him mourn. Dumbledore would take care of Severus anyway, whether or not Remus thought him worthy of that care. No, Severus would stay.

But Remus had to leave.

***

**II. March, 1982. A shipyard in Gdánsk.**

"Not very good timing, Remus, I've got to tell you." Nervous eyes in a hard, grizzled face darted back and forth before settling on Remus, brows knotted with either worry or annoyance.

Remus spread his hands. "Yeah, I know, but come on, Linus. You're my only lead."

Linus pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Fucking Dragoslav, was that it? Had to be. He's the only one who knows I'm here."

"It's not his fault," said Remus with a pointed look. The last thing he bloody needed was his allies turning on each other; there were too few of them as it was. "I poured Veritaserum down his throat."

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, each bearing cold, grey eyes and wands hidden in work trousers that could be grasped and pointed at a second's notice. With a sudden snort, breaking the eye contact, Linus threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, fucking hell," he sighed. "_Veritaserum_, honestly." He planted his hands on his hips and worked his jaw, and Remus knew he was in. Thank Christ. "All right. I'll Confund the Party hack at the docks and see about getting you a proper uniform. Don't know what the fuck you know about shipbuilding, though, with those lily white hands of yours." He rolled his eyes but then resumed his severe tone, pointing a finger at Remus. "You fucking get me fired, and I swear to God, I'll–"

"I won't," promised Remus, almost sagging with relief. "Thanks, mate."

Linus looked him over for another moment before shaking his head and turning back towards the canteen. "Come on, then," he called over his shoulder. "I've got fifteen more minutes' break. If you're not going to make a complete arse of both of us, we'd better talk."

Scrubbing at his face, Remus nodded and followed him, trying to tune his ears to the chatter around him as they grabbed a paper cup of lukewarm tea and a table away from the others. His Croatian was passable these days, and he wouldn't starve in Prague if dropped there and abandoned, but Polish was a different story. "_Dziekuje_," he mumbled in thanks to the old woman who wiped their table, flushing when she gave him an odd look.

Linus looked like he wanted to hit him. "Okay, you really are new at this, yeah? Christ." He waited until the woman had moved on and then lowered his voice. "I don't care how much of a fucking genius you were at school, or how much your pride will be so woefully injured if you don't become ace at Polish. For the love of fuck, use a fucking translation charm, would you? God al-fucking-mighty." He shook his head and rubbed at his temples, elbows sinking into the table. "I've been here two years now, and they still don't have any clue I ain't Polish – or Muggle, for that matter." He tilted his head to the side. "You know what'd happen if they thought an English spy was drinking tea in their fucking shipyard?"

Remus exhaled, leaning back in his chair and raising his eyes to the ceiling. "All right, fine. Sorry." He was beginning to think Dragoslav had had a point, warning him to stay away from Gdánsk. _Linus'll tear your bollocks off if you're not careful_, he'd said, back when they'd been sharing a cave high in the Carpathians, looking for Voldemort's old spies among the Danube werewolves.

"Look, I don't know what Dragoslav told you, but this place is ready to blow. If you've been sitting around with your thumb up your arse down in fucking Serbia, you've got no fucking clue what's going on up here."

"I know a little bit," said Remus defensively, folding his arms over his chest. "I know that Grindelwald's minions are behind the new government. I know that the wizard resistance is working out of this very shipyard." He paused, steeling his gaze. "And I know I want to help."

Linus stuck his tongue into his cheek and nodded. "Right. Okay. Nothing more complicated than that, then." He leaned forward, his tone sharpening. "Grindelwald hasn't had control of those _minions_ since 1945, you idiot. They may spout their shit about _For the Greater Good_ and all of that – say the words, march to the posters and chants, paying homage to all his ideas – but they don't give a shit about that old bastard. He ain't getting out anytime soon. Christ, you can see that Nurmengard tower from the top of the fucking Berlin Wall. Now, isn't that irony just kicking you in the balls?"

Remus snorted, swirling his oily tea.

"As for this shipyard? Christ. Yeah, we did our fucking best, but it's over now. You missed the show, Remus, while you and Snape were busy holding your own dicks over in fucking Scotland."

"We had our own war to fight," Remus reminded him, his voice crusty. "We could have used you."

"Oh yeah?" Linus glared at him. "Don't you dare, Remus. Don't you fucking _dare_ give me that nationalist shit about fighting for _my_ country. You were always the good little werewolf, weren't you? Taking Dumbledore's fucking hand as he led you up the road to Hogwarts. Well, fuck you. None of them ever cared one fucking lick about the rest of us. Not the Ministry, not Voldemort, and not even fucking Dumbledore." He fumbled with his shirt pocket and dug out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one angrily and inhaling through trembling fingers. "You could have used me," he muttered. "Yeah, right."

Remus sighed. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here. Linus had always been a brittle, angry bastard, but he'd run the top-rung werewolf pack in Wales and Scotland in the late '70s when Dumbledore had sent Remus out to make contact with them, and Remus had always regretted that he'd never impressed the man enough to bring him into the Order of the Phoenix or at least its distant sphere of influence. When Linus disappeared in early 1980, rumours had swirled through the packs that he'd answered a mysterious summons to Eastern Europe. To Remus's knowledge, none of the other werewolves in Britain had had contact with him since then.

He watched Linus smoke furiously for a few more seconds before deciding to try another tack. "I know why you came here," he said quietly. "I know about Wałęsa."

Linus's eyes widened before darting around the room again. "You want to shut the fuck up?" he hissed. "You can't say that name out loud anymore. Martial fucking law, Remus! Jesus, I thought you knew that much."

Remus slammed his palm down on the table. "No, _you_ shut the fuck up," he spat, his anger rising. "You never gave me any respect before, you fucking prick, but you're going to now, because I am not leaving this place until every single one of Grindelwald's supporters, everyone who could find Voldemort and bring him back to Britain, is dead and buried, and if that means working in a fucking shipyard with Wałęsa's werewolves until it's time to strike, then that's what I'm fucking doing."

"Wałęsa's out, Remus," said Linus, shaking his head. "They've got a new Minister for Magic here now; you're not even allowed to say his name – Muggle or wizard."

Remus sighed, his lips pressed together. "Bloody hell. What did he ever think he was doing, making himself so visible? What was his cover with the Muggles, anyway?"

"Shipyard worker," said Linus, gesturing with his head out towards the docks. "Right here."

"Amazing." Remus shook his head in wonder. "Can you imagine _our_ bloody Minister for Magic getting all the coal miners of Wales to take a run at Thatcher? It's insane! You wouldn't believe the ideas going around down south. Dragoslav thinks the Hungarians are going to be next, wizards staging sit-ins at Muggle government offices as if the Statute for Secrecy was just a meaningless old piece of parchment."

"Someone's got to do it," said Linus, his face etched with determination. "What, you'd rather wait for the Bulgarians? Christ. Karkaroff's churning out such perfect little soldiers from that school of his, they ain't never going to be good for shit down there. Not for anything we need, at least."

"Is that where he is now?" Remus was tight-lipped. "Bastard."

"Yeah, well, Dragoslav better get his arse in gear, too, now that Tito's gone, the stupid tit. Never a better time." His eyes blazed in earnest, and Remus couldn't help but get caught up in the man's passion. "That's why we've got to regroup up here in Poland. We're the fucking vanguard, mate. If we can't do it, no one else can, either. The Muggles, fuck, they mean well, but they just don't got the weapons we do; they don't understand how dangerous Grindelwald's old cabal can be. Shit, did you hear about Wałęsa two years back? Fucking madman." He grinned in admiration. "Had nearly every bloody worker in Poland walking off the job, taking a placard and marching through the main squares of Warsaw. Every shipyard in Gdánsk shut down. It was bloody brilliant. And anyway, isn't that why you're here – wanting to see a real revolution up close?"

"Not really a voyeuristic kind of thing." Remus paused, gazing out the far window of the canteen at the water splashing up on the docks. "I just thought I could help."

Linus was quiet for a long moment, running his fingers up and down the cigarette pack and tracing patterns that Remus couldn't follow. When he finally looked up again, his face was uncharacteristically sympathetic. "Your war's done with," he said gruffly. "You can't try to fight everyone else's just to make up for what you lost."

"You don't know anything about what I lost," said Remus reflexively, and Linus sighed.

"No, but I do know at least one bloke you _didn't_ lose. What's he got to say about you trotting around Europe like this, playing the innocent dock worker and inciting revolution?"

"He doesn't say anything about it, because it's not his concern."

"Christ," said Linus, lighting another fag. "Werewolves. Drama queens, the lot of you."

"Yeah, you're one to talk."

"I never was. Talking wastes time."

"You're all about action, I suppose?"

Linus held his eyes. "A werewolf who ain't into action won't change a single fucking thing. You should know that by now." He paused, chewing on his bottom lip. "How many people died, Remus?" he continued quietly, his eyes blazing. "How many died because you were sitting around trying to _talk_ about a solution rather than fight for one?"

It took all the discipline Remus had to keep himself in his chair, his fists balled at his sides and his heart pounding. He could leap up right now and smash Linus's head against the wall, Apparate away and no one would be the wiser. But maybe Linus was right. Remus had never been one to take action on something that could be dialogued to death instead. His heart rate slowed and began to sink into his chest as images of James, Lily and Sirius crashed over him. "You miserable fucking prick," he muttered, scrubbing at his face.

Linus shook out another cigarette and lit it. "Had a letter from Snape, by the way," he said, as if that was a proper response to Remus's statement.

Remus's eyes flew up. "You– what did it say? He hates werewolves," he added under his breath.

"Sure he does – except for all the werewolves he tried to liaise with during your war, just because _you_ were working with them." Linus's bearded face twisted up in a mocking smile.

"Severus only cared about one person during that war," said Remus grimly, "and it wasn't me."

Linus shrugged. "Whatever you say, mate." He paused, sighing and checking the old, clunking clock on the wall. "Listen, I've got to get back to work. Let me talk to the boss and see if I can get you on for tomorrow. You really want to do this?" he added, inhaling and blowing a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. "You sure you haven't seen enough of war?"

Remus pressed his lips together. "You were right," he said quietly. "I didn't do enough in the last war. Maybe this is one I can actually win."

"You lot _did_ win the last one, remember?" said Linus, giving him a pointed look. "Voldemort got fucked."

Images of his lost friends flashed in front of him, punctuated by the image of Severus as he'd last seen him – cold and naked and shivering on that bed they had once shared, paralysed with regret about Lily and barely even noticing when Remus had slipped out the door. "Voldemort, yeah," said Remus, nodding slowly. "But Albus thinks he's still out there somewhere, biding his time. And even if he's not–" he inhaled deeply and puffed out his cheeks, exhaling before raising his eyes to Linus – "he wasn't the only one who got fucked."

Linus smiled, rising from his chair and clapping Remus on the shoulder. "Brilliant. Anger makes a great motivator for change, mate. Come on. We've got a half-fucked revolution to see through."

*

_Snape – _

_Yeah, he's here. Got some classic English fantasy about "helping," as if these poor bastards don't have enough problems to be getting on with. All they need is the bloody English and their civilising missions, trying to make a difference in the fucking revolution. And no, what I'm doing here is totally different, so fuck you for even thinking it. _

_Anyway, yeah, I'll send you that bit of wolf nail as soon as you send the hellebore. I've got a man in Leningrad working on this shit he calls "Wolfsbane." Thinks it's going to change all our fucking lives, but trying to find the hellebore's the bitch of it up in the fucking Arctic Circle. Get me some of that, and I'll see what I can do about your ingredients. And I'll keep tabs on your boy. Never thought you would have gone this soft for a bit of arse, I got to tell you, especially not werewolf arse. He must have a cock the size of a dragon, yeah? _

_Linus_

***

**III. June, 1985. Retezat National Dragon Preserve, east of Timişoara.**

"Remus!" A burly figure charged through the door of the makeshift laboratory, a second, limp figure in his arms. "Fuck, _fuck_. Clear the table. Faster! God, come here. Help me get him–"

With a muttered curse under his breath, Remus abandoned his cauldron and was across the room in three strides, shoving bottles off the worktable and grabbing stray limbs. "Again? Christ, fuck. Where'd you find him?"

The burly man ran a shaking hand over his face.

"Jákob," warned Remus, his eyes only now leaving the mangled body on the table. "Tell me where you fucking found him."

"Not far, Remus. Not nearly far enough away from here."

"_Where_?"

"Just outside the Fireball pen," said Jákob, his voice trembling. Judging by body size, he should have been the toughest dragon handler on the team, and he was, physically, but underneath all that he had a soft heart, and the kind of evil that had been closing in on them over the past six months was rattling poor Jákob to the bone. "I was just coming off shift. Matei was ahead of me, or he would've seen, too. Just lying in the dirt like that." He swallowed hard and seemed to have to force himself to look at the body.

"Fuck," muttered Remus again, grabbing a cloth from the back table and dabbing at the bloodied face, trying to clear away some of the mess. His fingers pressed gently into the remaining flesh where he could – over the right shoulder and down one side of ripped shirt, and then lower, prodding at a dirt-covered toe. Not nearly enough of the flesh was intact, and judging by the other wounds to the head and chest, the man was long dead.

After a few minutes, he filed away his observations of the scars down the chest and thighs, the puncture wounds at the neck, the branding on the bottom of the left foot, and – oh, Christ – the thin strips of silver lodged under the fingernails. He glanced up to see Jákob sagging against the far wall, his hands closed together over his mouth as if in horrified prayer. His eyes no longer seemed to see Remus, and his whole body was shaking. Remus moved around the table and headed over to him, stopping just in front of him and ducking his head to search out Jákob's eyes.

"Hey," he said softly. "All right?"

Jákob shook his head and pointed an unsteady finger at the body. "I know him. It's someone I bloody _know_ this time, and I just–" He pressed his lips together and swallowed. "We can't stay here. Not like this. Take the dragons back to Wales; we've _got_ to!"

All the muscles in Remus's body tensed. "What do you mean, you know him?" he asked, ignoring the rest of what Jákob had said – for now, at least.

Jákob pointed again. "That's Ferenc Varga," he said quietly, the shudders finally melting away from his voice as he seemed to gain his strength back. Fuelled by anger now rather than fear, Remus guessed. "Handled the Ridgebacks for a bit a few years ago, before you got here. Nice bloke," he added, smiling sadly. "Really nice." He approached the table and took Ferenc's limp hand.

"How nice?" said Remus, narrowing his eyes as a picture of what might have happened began to form in his head.

Jákob glanced back over his shoulder at Remus, his face colouring. "Christ. All right: he was a great fuck; is that what you want to hear?" he said, but his tone remained light, and Remus approached him again, placing a sympathetic hand on his back.

"You two were serious?"

"Nah," said Jákob, biting his lower lip. "Not really. Just a good time every now and then. He really was a great bloke." He sighed. "Hadn't seen him since he left to take a job in a mine further east, though."

"Mines?" Remus swore again, massaging his temples. "With Muggles?"

"Well, yeah. Not many options for him in the Wizarding world. Didn't get into Durmstrang – that dumb fuck of a headmaster's got some Slavic superiority complex; won't let Hungarians or Romanians in, did you know? Anyway, so, he learned what he could, and he was brilliant with the dragons, but there wasn't much else he could do when he got tired of that. Never learned enough spells to really function in the Wizarding world." Jákob shook his head. "He should have stayed here," he muttered.

Remus listened to the story with equal parts fascination and horror. He had been teaching in Budapest for a bit after leaving Poland and had only arrived in Romania half a year before, when the first whispers of mutilated werewolf bodies reached his ears and he came to investigate. "Wait. You didn't go to Durmstrang?"

Jákob's mouth opened a little bit as though he could explain it but then snapped closed again. He shook his head and then forced a grin. "I grew up near a forest of magical creatures, and my parents taught me everything they could at home. They're trying to get us a school of our own, but it's hard." He shrugged. "I can do dragons and werewolves, maybe a centaur or two, and I've got a wand to warm my tea, but beyond that, my skills are pretty limited. Just like Ferenc."

"God," muttered Remus, scrubbing at his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Nothing to be sorry about," said Jákob, before grabbing a blanket from a cupboard near the door and unfolding it. He threw it over Ferenc's body with a grimace. "Drink?" he asked Remus with a weary sigh. "We've got to figure out who's doing this."

Remus nodded. "Yeah. A drink would sure help. But I think I have some idea who's doing it."

Jákob's eyes widened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Go send an owl to Colin about this, would you? When he gets back from Bucharest, he's going to want to know what he's dealing with at his own compound."

Jákob nodded and headed out the door, rejoining Remus in his office ten minutes later with two bottles of beer. With a subdued clink of the bottles, they drank deeply, sprawled out in Remus's oversized armchairs and staring blankly out over the piles of charts and translations. "So, what now?" asked Jákob at last, earnest eyes blinking at Remus, and for a split second, Remus let his own gaze linger on the muscled forearms revealed under the rolled-up sleeves of the work shirt, the day's growth of light brown stubble and the thick fingers gripping the bottle.

He shook himself out of it. "Now... I don't know. The best werewolf tracker I know disappeared outside Gdánsk last year," he admitted, feeling more than a twinge of pain even thinking about what might have happened to Linus, "and I'll have to think a bit about who else might be able to help." He took a deep drink, his brows creased.

"Werewolf tracker? No, this is different. Ferenc must have just got in the way, maybe trying to protect one of the werewolves...?" His voice trailed off, and he gave Remus a hopeful look.

Remus set his bottle down and sighed, not quite ready for this conversation. "No. I'm sorry." He paused. "You didn't know he was a werewolf, then?" he asked, trying to keep his voice sympathetic rather than angry.

"What? I– no. I didn't know that. No, wait. That's not possible. I would have seen– well. Wouldn't I?"

Remus nodded, rubbing at his jaw. "Yeah, I reckon you would have. So, it's new, then. Shit."

Jákob stared at him, his mouth falling open as comprehension dawned. "The Muggles, you think?" he whispered, his face draining of colour. "They do awful things. I've heard stuff in the villages... things you couldn't come up with in your worst nightmares."

"Not the Muggles," said Remus, shaking his head. "If Ceauşescu himself knows about werewolves and worse, how to make them or use them, then all of bloody Europe is going to be fucked." He shivered at the thought. "There's no way it's him."

"Then..." Jákob took a deep breath, collapsing further into his chair. "The Ministry." He glanced to each side, as though expecting spies to come out of the wood work at any moment and arrest him, and Remus briefly felt his chest constrict that this was the normal reaction to discussing anything negative about _any_ government, wizard or Muggle, in this part of the world. "Do you really think?" he whispered.

"I've a contact with the werewolves in Serbia," said Remus, thinking fondly on the work Dragoslav was still risking his life to do for all of them. "There are rumours that a Russian's been perfecting the Wolfsbane potion, someone up in Leningrad. If it's true, the Ministries for Magic all over Eastern Europe are about to lose their hold over the werewolves. Won't be able to tell them apart from ordinary wizards anymore, if they don't need transformation safeguards every month."

Jákob's lips parted, and Remus had to struggle not to stare at them. "God. They'll just blend right in," he murmured. "Hold any job at any time of month, go anywhere they please." His face brightened. "That's amazing! Your life will be so different, Remus. Can you imagine?"

He tried not to latch onto the other man's enthusiasm too much. It would be better than a miracle if it were true, if the mysterious Wolfsbane potion did exist somewhere, but he dared not get his hopes up. Not yet.

Jákob's face fell as his mind continued to wrap around Remus's words. "It's a warning," he murmured. "They're sending a warning. And they know we get quite a few werewolves through here to help manage the dragons, so they're targeting us because–" He stopped, dropping his head to his hands and tugging at his hair. "_Shit_."

Remus nodded, drinking and then wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I think it might be even worse than that."

Jákob looked up.

"There was a branding on the bottom of Ferenc's foot, just like the others," he began slowly, "but I couldn't figure out what they meant until just now, when you were telling me about him out there." He gestured in the direction of the adjoining laboratory.

"_For the Greater Good_," recited Jákob, his brow furrowed. "Grindelwald's slogan, right? Back in the day?"

Remus nodded. "It's not as old as you think, though, not anymore. His supporters in Germany fanned out all over Eastern Europe after he was imprisoned, infiltrating governments for both wizards and Muggles. It's been a disaster." He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "The brands have all been in Hungarian, right?"

Jákob clutched at his half-empty bottle, staring at Remus. "Yeah. No, wait. The first two were in Romanian."

Remus pulled his lower lip under his teeth, thinking. "That slogan has always been in German or Russian, anywhere else you see it. Even in Poland."

"But not here." Their eyes locked, and Remus could almost see the wheels turning in Jákob's brain just as they were in his own.

"All the werewolf bodies we've found have been within six kilometres of this Preserve," Remus began slowly, thinking out loud, "and now this one was the closest."

Jákob's mouth fell open. "It's about us. They're warning- not just werewolves, but _us_."

"What do we have?" Remus rubbed his jaw, counting on the fingers of his other hand. "An impoverished English administrator; that can't be a threat." He gave a weak smile.

"A pair of rare Ukrainian Ironbellies."

"An '81 Trabant with the muffler missing."

They paused, taking another swig of beer and wracking their brains.

Jákob stared off into the corner, frowning. "An impoverished English _werewolf_ administrator," he said quietly, and Remus nodded.

"But this began happening before I arrived."

"Right. Yeah."

"A workforce of Hungarians and Romanians," said Remus, and Jákob's frown deepened. "Jákob," he said quietly, seeking the man's eyes and smiling gently when he finally looked up. "How far along are these plans for a new Wizarding school in the region?"

Jákob blinked at him. "Quite far," he admitted. "My father's village has been organising a council to–" He stopped, his eyes going wide. "No. Karkaroff?" he whispered.

Remus spread his hands. "It's possible. He was a Death Eater in Voldemort's service during the last war in England. He's more than capable of that kind of hatred and persecution, and if it's true, what you told me about his prejudices..."

"That's not the only prejudice." Jákob's face hardened as he stood up, slamming his bottle down on Remus's desk and turning to the window, shaking his head. "Shit. _Shit_. I'm such an idiot. I _told_ him to be discreet, that not everyone would want to fuck men as much as he did, but he was too proud, too young and confident and just–" He punched a flat palm against the wall, his body trembling in anger.

Remus felt a cold trickle down his spine as Jákob spoke, since he'd been thinking the same thing himself. He had seen a lot of violence at this point in his life and travels, a great deal of hatred and more than his share of persecution, but it still rattled him, especially to have it happening so close to this compound and to his own life. He rose from his chair and joined Jákob at the window, gazing out at the distant dragon pens and watching their breath light the horizon with flames the colour of the sunset. It was nearly unbearable at times, this life he had chosen, and it was moments like this that he felt isolated from everything he'd ever had before, and everyone he'd ever loved before.

He had thought he was used to losing people he cared about; God knew he'd experienced enough of that in the war against Voldemort. But meeting new people in his travels here and coming to care about them as well was just as wrenching, because it was virtually guaranteed that none of them would be in his life for long. If they weren't killed or imprisoned – or if he himself wasn't – they were likely to drift away from each other, lost in the motion of the Wizarding underground that constantly sought breath beneath the suffocating cement structures of Muggle government.

He placed a hand on Jákob's shoulder. "We'll fight," he murmured. "We won't let them do this."

Jákob turned, tilting his head to the side and giving Remus a sad smile. "You're going to fight with us?" he asked sceptically. "This isn't your war."

"I fought my war the wrong way," said Remus, staring out the window. "Still trying to fix that."

"There must be people at home who miss you."

Remus froze. _Eight years_, he thought grimly, letting the words flicker across his mind before pushing them aside. "Maybe," he said, "but I doubt it."

A light hand slid up his back, gently massaging between his shoulder blades and holding him steady, and Remus turned to find Jákob watching him, his eyes sad but full of longing. "We'll fight," whispered Jákob, his lips close to Remus's ear as he repeated Remus's own words back to him. "The right way this time, and you'll win." And then Remus could barely find the strength to nod before Jákob's free hand cupped his face and he leaned in to brush his lips across Remus's, soft and safe and with all the comfort of a warm body behind it. Remus let himself fall into it briefly, parting his lips and sighing into Jákob's mouth, his hands working up the man's shirt and gripping the fabric as the kiss deepened.

He felt Jákob getting hard against him, pressed into his thigh and moaning into his mouth, and the temptation to just lose himself in the moment swept over him, the soaring hope that he could open himself to someone new again, to feel love and passion and warmth in strong arms and forget all about this mess, this country, this universe that insisted on puncturing his every attempt at happiness.

But even as Jákob began to unbutton his shirt, pulling back briefly and biting his lip before leaning in for another kiss, the only body that Remus could see in his mind was the one he could no longer have. Pale and slim, stretched out on a creaking mattress in a hidden room at Spinner's End, Severus gazed back at him in his memories, hair falling down his shoulders and an impatient scowl lodged on his face as Remus approached him, undressing and then crawling towards him on the bed. No man had ever replaced Severus and none would – not, at least, until Remus could be sure of Severus's feelings for him.

He wouldn't know that for a few more years, assuming Severus was, in fact, honouring the terms of that note.

_I am such a fool_, he thought with a last light moan, before pushing Jákob away and running his fingers over his lips. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, falling into a chair under the window. "It's not fair to you."

Jákob stepped back, not-so-subtly rearranging his trousers. "Who is it fair to, then?" he asked. "You're not being fair to yourself, Remus, living like this, not letting anyone touch you."

A dozen replies sped through his mind, from _You don't understand_, to _I don't deserve to be happy without him_, but even he was surprised by the one that came out of his mouth. "I miss him," he murmured before he could stop himself, shaking his head and silently thanking Jákob for not asking who he was talking about. "But I'll tell you one thing," he continued, sweeping the moment aside and focusing on the task at hand. "Until Colin gets back here and we can work out a plan of action to stop these killings, I'm not letting you out of this compound without a few more spells under your belt." He gave Jákob a pointed look, and the other man stared at him for a moment before laughing, his hand rubbing at his forehead.

"Yeah? You're going to teach me to use my wand right?" he teased, and Remus grinned.

"I am. I might have fought my last war all wrong, but I've picked up a few tips since then. We'll start with a simple _Expelliarmus_. Great disarming spell, if you find yourself attacked in the forest."

With a final laugh and a shake of his head, Jákob rose from the chair, pulling Remus up with him and striding out into the laboratory. "All right," he said. "My new professor, then. Let's get some magical defence going."

*

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I was surprised to receive your letter and even more surprised by your request. I do not think it is my place to give you information about my colleagues when I don't even know you. Dark spies are very common in this part of the world, as I'm sure you know. There are rumours from Albania that your war is not over. We are all rather suspicious of the English and their motivations. I hope you understand._

_But since I have heard your name before and your letter seemed sincere, I will agree to tell you only that Remus Lupin was alive and well when I last saw him, which was not a terribly long amount of time ago. I believe he was just as concerned with your whereabouts and state of mind as you are with his, in fact. It might do the pair of you more good to simply correspond with each other rather than with me._

_Sincerely,  
Keresztes Jákob _

***

**IV. October, 1988. Leningrad.**

Remus found his way along the banks of the canal by scent alone, his nose twitching as help came further within reach. Just around this corner, if he could only make it before passing out. He closed his eyes and paused in his crawling for a moment as a pair of women walked by and scowled at him, feeling too weak to argue with them about why he wasn't at work in the middle of a weekday, or, worse, why he didn't have a coat on in the middle of fucking October at the Arctic Circle.

Grimacing over the pain in his right leg and rib cage, he followed the scent around the corner, stopping in front of an enormous, soulless building with windows that began only on the fourth or fifth floor and no doors to speak of. Collapsing against the yellow-grey outer wall, he barely had time to register that the brick of ice under his arse was really fucking cold before he dropped almost entirely out of consciousness, his blood cooling and his heart rate slowing to a crawl.

"Oh!" he distantly heard a voice sigh. "_Bozhe moi_. Mashenka! Quickly, come here. Yuri Stepanovich is drunk again."

Remus opened stubborn eyelids to protest, but found his tongue wouldn't quite work. A thick woman came into view, fur boots around her ankles and two bulging shopping bags dropping from the sleeves of a tightly-wrapped coat.

"That's not Yuri Stepanovich, ma!" a younger voice screeched in Russian. "My God, you need new glasses."

"Well, get me new glasses, then!" the old woman thundered, rewrapping one of the bags' handles around her fist.

"Oho, listen to this," the younger woman said, turning to Remus and jerking her thumb back at her mother, as if forgetting that the alleged drunk slumped outside her building perhaps had larger problems than hers. "It's toilet paper this month and glasses in March, since you won't let me trade that sodding couch you love so much, to jump the queue! So, fine, then. Go around blind for all I care!"

"I– excuse me." Remus fumbled through his cotton tongue for a moment before cursing inwardly, fingering his wand in his pocket and murmuring a translation spell on instinct. "I could use some help."

"Help?" The woman peered at him, her mouth turning down as she took in the cuts on his face and hands. "You might not be Yuri Stepanovich, but you _are_ some other prick who's found a bootleg of vodka and fallen into the Fontanka, then, eh?" She shook her head, continuing on her way.

His eyes darted back and forth as his nose twitched again. There was a werewolf in this building; he'd bet his life on it. "Okay, yes. You're right. But please. It's terribly cold out here."

"Mashenka," the old woman scolded, singing each syllable of the name. "Come, now! He'll freeze."

The woman called Masha paused in her steps, raising her head to the sky as if in defeat. "Since when are you so bloody generous?" she grumbled to her mother, making her way back towards Remus. "How old are you?" she barked, squinting at him, and his teeth chattered as he answered.

"I'm–" he paused, counting in his head – "twenty-eight."

"No job, then? What are you doing out here in the middle of the day, all cut up like this? What would your wife say?"

She was terrifying, Remus decided as she loomed over him. "I was laid off," he said, scrambling to think of a way they might let him into the building. "I– my wife?"

"See?" she bellowed, whirling on her mother. "Just like my Vanya! Forgets all about his wife and family and runs off drinking in the middle of the day!" She threw her hands up, stalking around the corner.

Remus's eyes darted back to the old woman. "Please, I beg you. I only slipped and fell on the ice. I'm not drunk."

She smiled down at him, nodding. "Mashenka doesn't understand," she said conspiratorially. "Young men are unpredictable, aren't they?" She chuckled. "Got to find their roots, plant their seeds, see the world..." She gestured vaguely with one hand, bumping the carrier bag against her thigh before her expression hardened. "But they always go home to their families after, hm?"

"Oh, yes. Indeed. I promise." Remus blinked up at her and, shaking her head, she beckoned him to follow as she trudged to the corner and rounded it. He followed her and found a thick metal door, the keypad rusted and the numbers nearly indecipherable.

"In you go, then," the old woman ordered, swinging a gloved hand up to haul the door open when the keypad groaned its assent, and Remus hesitated a moment as he debated taking one of the bags from her. In the end, he decided she hardly needed the help, as she was already two flights of stairs ahead of him by the time he'd pulled the door to a clanking close behind them.

"No lift?" he muttered weakly, and she must have heard him because she laughed, a barking sound that echoed through the damp column of stairs.

"Ninth floor," she called down to him. "If you're not up here in an hour, I suppose I might come looking for you." She chuckled again, and Remus swore under his breath.

Half an hour later, Remus was comfortably seated at a cramped kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea before him with a tiny lemon wedge dropped in. His muscles began to thaw and he felt his circulation pick up a little, although the prickling scent under his nose still kept him alert and tense.

"I've a meeting at the Institute at seven," Masha was saying to her mother as they chopped potatoes and onions on the narrow strip of counter across from the table, "so you'll have to feed this lot, and mind Vanya's not out late with those brutes next door. Bloody Galina Mikhailovna and her gossip, she'll have the Party chairman back here in no time looking for vodka from Helsinki!"

"All right, all right," the old woman chanted with a series of nods, rolling her eyes at Remus whenever she got the chance.

"Mama!" A coltish girl of twelve or thirteen ran into the kitchen, planting her hands on her hips. "Where's my pink scarf? Kolya's meeting me down in the courtyard and I can't find it _anywhere_, and– Who's this?" She paused, squinting at Remus. "You look like Yuri Stepanovich, but without the moustache." She giggled, and Remus glanced at the old woman to see her giving Masha an _I told you so_ glare.

"Take these peels out to the bin downstairs," said Masha, washing her hands and throwing a bag at the girl. "This is no one. He's leaving soon. And you can borrow a scarf from your sister. And if I see you so much as holding hands with that good-for-nothing Kolya, I'll throw you both to the wolves tonight!"

"_Ma_!" the girl shrieked, outraged, and Remus laughed despite himself.

It had been a while since he'd seen family shenanigans up close, even if the word _wolf_ sent a new dagger of pain through his ribs. He winced, biting on his lower lip and bending over the table a bit.

"Are you ill?" the girl asked, peering at him with wide eyes, and Remus swallowed before wetting his lips to speak.

"No. Well, a little."

"He's drunk!" exclaimed Masha, fuming over her chopping knife.

The girl's eyes widened. "Kolya says his dad can't find vodka _anywhere_ anymore! He's about ready to go 'round the bend." She leaned in closer to Remus. "Where do you get yours?"

"Ah, well, I mean, it's not really that I–"

"You know, you really do look an awful lot like Yuri Stepanovich," the girl continued, interrupting him. She reached out a finger and poked at his cheek. "He's got scars on his face like that, too."

He had opened his mouth to find a way to politely send her away, but quickly closed it again, his nostrils flaring a little. The scent was still strong. "Does he live in this building?" he asked her quietly, and she nodded, pointing behind her at the door.

"One floor up! My brother knows him."

"Is your brother here?"

She furrowed her brow. "Don't know." Heading out into the hallway, she grabbed a broom and started banging the handle up against the ceiling. "Gri-_sha_!" she hollered. "Grisha!" In another second, a woman as elderly and solid as Masha's mother stormed down the hallway, grabbing the broom from the girl and pausing just shy of hitting her over the head with it.

"Masha!" shouted the woman. "Get your brat in here and keep her quiet! I've only got the radio for half an hour before it's Leonid Nikolaevich's turn, and I want to hear my program!"

"Yes, all right," sighed Masha, wiping her hands on her apron as she took the girl's arm and hauled her back inside, giving her a weary look.

Before Remus could even make sense of the proceedings thus far, a young man of about twenty with shaggy brown hair, blue jeans, a Rolling Stones t-shirt and a small hoop through one ear jogged down the hall and into the kitchen. "My God, you're so _loud_," he said incredulously to the girl, laughing and rubbing his eyes. "What's the emergency?"

"What were you doing?" asked Masha over her shoulder, moving on to the cucumber and lifting her knife. Remus's eyes moved back to the young man, and the flush that crept up his cheeks betrayed _exactly_ what he'd been doing. Appraising him from his quiet corner, Remus smiled to himself as he awaited the reply.

"I– just, was talking with Yura. I mean, Yuri Stepanovich," he added, correcting himself to the more formal name.

"Well, here's your Yuri Stepanovich," muttered Masha, nodding over at Remus, who smiled weakly. "Both your grandmother and your sister are convinced he's a double. What do you think, then, Grisha?" She shook her head and kept chopping.

The young man's gaze moved over to Remus, and the pace of the housing complex slowed to a crawl. Their eyes met, and Remus watched intently as the young man lowered his, moving down Remus's chest to the hands sitting on the table, and the way his fingers were tracing slow patterns over the edge of the teacup. He moved his gaze back up again, wetting his lips, and Remus had to push down his smile.

"I think he does look a little like him," said Grisha quietly, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him, his eyes not leaving Remus even as he addressed his mother. "Who is he?"

"Vagabond," muttered Masha, just as the old woman called, "He was sick outside."

"A sick vagabond," said Grisha, his lips curving into a smile as he rested his chin in his hand on the table. "I'm Grisha," he added softly, his mother already giving new instructions to his sister and not paying them any attention.

"Remus." He extended his hand, which Grisha shook, raising his eyebrows. "It's... Finnish," Remus supplied, guessing the confusion when the name didn't match the fluency of his Russian.

Deepening the pretty smile, Grisha shook his head, his eyes still on Remus. "No, it isn't," he whispered.

They sat in silence for a moment, the bustle of the communal apartment continuing around them as they sized each other up. It would be dangerous to make a wrong guess; they both knew that. Landing in prison for it in London was quite a bit different from landing in a Siberian prison camp for it here. Remus could always Apparate away or otherwise Confund the police; that wasn't the problem. But Grisha couldn't, and Remus had already had one too many close calls with men in this part of the world in the past few years. He wouldn't risk it again.

Well, he _shouldn't_ risk it again, but damned if the kid didn't have the prettiest brown eyes and the fullest bottom lip he'd ever seen.

"Well, perhaps you should be going, then, _vagabond_," said Grisha loudly, getting up from the table and giving his mother a pointed look. "Looks like he's shaken it off," he told her, and she shrugged, turning back to the soup. "I'll see him out." He cast a glance at Remus over his shoulder and wet his lips, sauntering out of the kitchen.

With a sigh and a rub at his jaw, Remus pushed himself to his feet, thanked his hostesses and followed. When they reached the ground floor, Grisha led him down a narrow corridor away from the front door of the building and around another corner, then through a rusted door that only went up as high as Remus's waist. He crouched down low and crawled through, emerging in a boiler room of some sort. Grisha pressed a bolt into place behind him and immediately fell on top of him, pulling at his jumper and biting a trail up his neck.

"Oh," breathed Remus. "God. Okay." He'd barely had time to kiss the kid properly, running a hand through his shaggy hair and around to the back of his neck and pulling him in close, before Grisha fell to his knees and tore at Remus's trousers. He let his head fall back against the wall and his better judgement take five minutes off, because it had been awhile since he'd had anything this warm and wet near his cock, and Grisha's mouth was on him in seconds, drawing him to full hardness and then moving up and down his shaft in a frantic rhythm.

He let his fingers clench and unclench lightly in the kid's hair, thrusting into his mouth and feeling his post-transformation muscles relax in ways the tea upstairs had not been able to accomplish, and long before he'd intended to, he felt the first spasms in his balls. He poured himself into the kid's mouth, watching with parted lips as Grisha sealed his lips and swallowed every drop, and when he was done, he rose to his feet again and slipped a hand down his jeans, pressing up close to Remus and jerking himself hard.

"Yeah," murmured Remus, drawing him in with an arm around his shoulders and hot breath in his ear. "That's it. Come on."

Grisha came in seconds, his face flushed and his eyes squeezing closed as his arm stilled and he slumped against Remus. He paused, his chest heaving, before pushing his hair off his face with his free hand and laughing. "Finnish, yeah?"

Remus snorted, then gave him an apologetic smile. "English, actually."

Grisha's eyes widened. "English!" He glanced down. "Good fuck," he said in broken English, pointing, as Remus tucked himself back into his trousers, before apparently exhausting his foreign vocabulary and switching back. "Your Russian's better than mine. You a spy?" He grinned at that. The days were mostly over when Cold War spies could actually do much damage on either side, but even if they could, Grisha's generation no longer appreciated that sort of danger. It was just a joke to him.

"No, he is not a spy – at least, not that kind – but he really should explain what he is doing here."

Grisha jumped out of his skin and let out a yelp at the sound of the calm voice from the other side of the boiler room, while Remus tensed, his body and senses on alert. A man walked out of the shadows across the room and approached them. He had greying hair like Remus's and was pushing forty, Remus guessed. He was dressed casually but dignified, in black trousers and a rumpled white dress shirt, and his polished shoes clacked on the cement floor as he walked. When he got closer, Remus pressed his lips together at the sight of two long gashes healing slowly on either cheek and another leading down his collarbone to his chest.

"Yuri Stepanovich," said Remus, moving in front of Grisha to approach the stranger, who nodded at the name.

The man switched to English, foregoing the translation charm, and Remus had to admire that subtle way of proving dominance. "Yes, but why so formal? Please, call me Yura." He paused to shake Remus's hand. Just before releasing it, he leaned in closer. "You must be Lupin."

He shouldn't have let the surprise show on his face, but he was out of practice with surprise, truth be told, and he felt his eyebrows shoot up. "I– yes. How did you–"

"Oh, I have my contacts." Yura waved a hand before turning to Grisha. "You should go help your grandmother with the soup," he said pointedly in Russian.

"Lenka can do that!" he protested. "I want to stay. How do you know each other? And– _watching_ me, God, Yura, what are you–"

"Then you should shovel the front step." Yura gave the kid a hardened look until he dropped his eyes, nostrils flaring.

"Fine," he agreed at last, giving Remus a last look. "Thanks," he said with a flirty smile, as he headed back towards the door.

Yura gave Remus a long look as the kid left. "A bit young for you, isn't he?" He leaned back against the wall, arms folded casually over his chest and a smirk on his face. "I was told your loyalties lie with someone much older than that."

"I don't have many loyalties anymore." Remus matched Yura's stance, standing up tall and tilting his head to the side. If this was going to be about dominance, he wasn't about to lose.

Yura shrugged. "What do you have, then? An expired passport and an ache in your back, hm?" He gave a short laugh. "Come, let's stop playing games. I know what you are looking for here."

"You seem to know an awful lot about me."

"And you seem to underestimate Russians," said Yura, his tone hardening. "We know an awful lot about everyone." He pulled a pack of French cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out, taking his time in lighting it and settling back against the wall to inhale, one foot crossed over the other. "Your Severus sends his regards, you know."

Remus could have punched the grin that spread over the man's pointy face, while he folded his arms over his chest and let the cigarette smoke trail up from the fingers hugging his left elbow. "I don't know who you're talking about," said Remus reflexively. He'd fought and spied in more than a few wars by now. He wasn't as much of an idiot as he'd been in 1981.

Yura laughed. "Ah, yes, of course. Beautiful answer. Next time I see him, I shall tell him that the werewolf to whom he is so tragically loyal has been receiving blow jobs in the shadows of communal apartments behind your dreaded _Iron Curtain_, hm?" He took another drag, his eyes locked on Remus.

"You don't know Severus," said Remus through tight lips, but Yura only paused, leaning forward.

"You don't know _me_, wolf," he spat. "I don't take kindly to strangers in my territory. You have thirty seconds to state your business before I take it upon myself to ensure your... ejection from the premises, shall we say."

Remus closed his mouth over his next words, instead spending ten of those precious seconds debating his options. He couldn't be sure of this man's loyalties, not yet, but Remus had gone through an infinite amount of trouble just to get here, a route that had involved crawling through a muddy field in Poland and twenty-four hours spent curled in a ball in the hold of a Finnish fishing vessel with clearance up the Neva River. He couldn't walk away without the Wolfsbane, or at least without some assurances that it would not fall into the hands of those who would use it against werewolves somehow, rather than for them.

"Fifteen seconds," drawled Yura, "and you can give me your wand while you're at it."

Remus grimaced, cursing in his head before reaching in his back pocket for his wand. He held it out between thumb and forefinger. "Fine," he muttered, dropping it into the man's outstretched hand. "I'm unarmed, and you're right: my back does hurt, because I transformed in the hold of an abandoned ship last night, but I'd do it again if it meant getting into this godforsaken city undetected, because rumours are rampant around Eastern Europe that there's a potions master in Leningrad who's perfected the Wolfsbane." He paused, giving the man before him an expectant look.

"Still locking yourself up to transform, then?" said Yura, tapping his fag over the cement floor. "How barbaric."

Remus grit his teeth. "Do you have it or not?"

Yura paused, his eyes moving up and down Remus's body. "Severus warned me that you would be impatient. Possibly even rude." He took another drag, and Remus used all his strength to remain calm. "But he also vouched for you, so you can stop pretending his loyalty to you means nothing. It might have just saved your life." He dropped the cigarette to the floor, stamped his shoe over it and returned Remus's wand before gesturing with his head for Remus to follow him.

With a wave of his wand at the back wall, the panelling melted away to reveal a narrow corridor. They moved down it quickly, reaching another set of doors that were also unlocked magically, before finding themselves in an elaborate laboratory. Remus stared at the row of bubbling cauldrons, the supply shelves and there, lining the back wall, the small brown phials with a thick, stencilled _W_ raised over the surface.

"No Hogwarts here," said Yura as though guessing Remus's surprise, sweeping into the lab and waving his wand to lock the door behind him. "No Ministry, either, and certainly no Diagon Alley." He pronounced each place name as though it pained him, spitting them through clenched teeth. "Our Wizarding infrastructure was destroyed years ago. It's every wizard for himself in this country now. Or witch, I suppose, but I haven't much use for those." He paused, tilting his head at Remus. "A werewolf through and through, as I'm sure you know. Not many of us have room in our animal hearts for the softness of witches, do we?" He laughed, the harsh sound echoing through the chamber, before moving over to a stack of boxes against one wall and ripping the top open on one.

Remus watched in wonder as Yura unscrewed the cap on an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid and raised the bottle to his lips, drinking deeply. He moaned in pleasure after swallowing, then held the bottle out to Remus.

"Best in Russia," he said with a sly grin, and Remus took the bottle, turning it around in his hands a moment.

"If I had wished to poison you, it would already be done," said Yura, rolling his eyes and heading towards a gently roiling cauldron to stir the contents.

Remus sniffed at the bottle, his eyes growing wide, before tipping it to his mouth for a small taste. Immediately his stomach was washed through with the prickly, cool-hot swirl of pure vodka, and he gripped the bottle in front of his face, staring at it. "Where did you get this?" he asked, breathless, as his eyes registered the three dozen or more boxes stacked against the wall, all containing bottles like this. "It's illegal now!" he said in a rush, not thinking. "You'll be arrested."

Yura only glanced at him over his shoulder, still prodding the cauldron contents with a stirring rod. "Arrested, do you think so? Merlin. I should go into hiding then, I suppose." He turned back to the cauldron with a snort. "Bring the bottle here, Lupin, if you please. This batch is nearly ready."

His mind struggling to put all the pieces together, he walked across the lab to the cauldron and peered in, watching the thick potion boil for a few seconds before handing Yura the vodka. With a wave of his wand, Yura conjured a measuring apparatus and set the bottle pouring the requisite amount of vodka into it, invisible hands trickling the liquid into the cauldron at measured intervals while Yura leaned back against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Remus.

"Have you figured it out, yet?" he drawled. "Severus mentioned that you have some difficulty grasping basic concepts, but I did not imagine he would have wasted his time or his cock on a man quite as dense as you."

Remus matched his stance, folding his arms and glaring. "Are you finished insulting me?"

Yura shrugged.

"It's true, then. You've made the Wolfsbane." He nodded towards the shelves of phials.

Yura followed his gaze, wetting his bottom lip before inclining his head. "It is true, yes."

"And the ingredient no one else has been able to decipher?" He stared incredulously at the bottle of vodka still tipping magically into the cauldron at regular intervals, and Yura laughed, a deep rumble in his chest that echoed around the chamber.

"It is the hellebore-water that gives Russian vodka its quality flavour," began Yura, his face smug. "Difficult to acquire it, of course, since it grows best in the Balkans and Albania; Russian wizards have had a monopoly on the trade for centuries, though, selling hellebore vodka to the government at prices that very easily kept us living in comfort and secrecy." He paused, lifting one hand and examining his fingernails. "If you must know, it was Severus who deduced that hellebore was the missing ingredient in the Wolfsbane, but it is too potent in its regular form. It must be distilled first." He glanced up, and Remus tried to keep his face impassive.

"Tell me he didn't try to go to Albania himself," said Remus, his chest constricting a little bit.

"No, he is not that stupid. No wizard in their right mind would go hellebore-hunting in Albania these days, never mind one with a Dark Mark still burned on his arm. It used to be easier to get, but not anymore." He lowered his voice, his eyes set on Remus. "Make no mistake that your enemy is very much alive in some form," he murmured, "and he has been keeping himself busy in the Balkans. Revolution is coming there, and it will not be peaceful."

Remus took a deep breath and nodded, pressing his lips together. He already suspected that much, but hearing it stated so unequivocally was still difficult. "So, what do you need me for?"

Yura snorted a laugh. "I do not need you for anything. You came looking for me, remember?"

Remus sighed, maintaining his stance opposite the other man.

"But since you are here, and since Severus seems to trust you so much, very well. I can use you." He appraised Remus for another long moment, his eyes sweeping over the barely-healed scars on his face and neck from the night before, before crossing the lab to the shelves and plucking a phial from the top. "It is not perfected yet. We still must discover if it loses potency with shelf life." He paused to pop the cork from the small phial, handing it to Remus. "But it is better than nothing. Drink."

Remus accepted it, turning it around in his fingers. "But the full moon has gone now."

"A few days before and after, I think," said Yura with a wave of his hand. "It will still help."

Whether or not Severus actually knew or trusted this man, Remus might never know, but he did know that Severus's name – and his given name, at that – was not revealed easily or used lightly. It would have to be enough. He raised the phial to his lips and closed his eyes, drinking the contents in three swift swallows before lowering his head again and grimacing. "God," he coughed. "That's awful."

"I shall work on a candy-flavoured batch just for you," said Yura dryly, but he watched Remus intently for a reaction.

Within moments, Remus felt warmth flood his body and the muscles of his back and shoulders ease. He pulled out the neck of his jumper and glanced down at his chest, watching with fascination as two long scars down his torso closed and shortened considerably. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. Glancing up at Yura, he gave a small smile. "Thank you."

Yura waved a hand again. "Now, as for what you can do for me..."

Running a hand through his hair, Remus nodded. "All right. What?"

"There is no vodka," he stated simply. "The restrictions are just a hoax, trying to convince people that it is for the good of the country that alcohol is banned, but it will be the death of this government. If the government goes, then we are all in jeopardy," he said gravely, holding Remus's eyes. "Everyone is too afraid of Albania now to harvest the hellebore we need." He paused. "You have contacts, I hear."

Remus wet his lips, considering his answer. "In Albania? No."

When Yura didn't reply, he furrowed his brow.

"In the Balkans, yes. In Bratislava, yes. And maybe in eastern Romania, if they are willing. But not in Poland, not anymore," he warned, pointing a finger, "and not in Bulgaria. Igor Karkaroff is not pleased with me."

Yura pulled himself up straighter and nodded, satisfied. "Very well. That will have to do." He held out his hand, narrowing his eyes at Remus. "Do we have a deal?"

A thousand reasons not to do this flashed across Remus's mind, but in the end, he knew it was a matter of changing the lives of werewolves forever, and he couldn't turn that down. He took Yura's hand, shaking it with one firm pump. "Yes," he stated. "We have a deal."

*

_Severus –_

_Well, well, well. Your little pet found me after all. Most impressive, I have to say. Even you are not aware of my precise whereabouts, nor is anyone else still alive. Most impressive indeed. Of course, he cannot stay here. I have allowed him access to the Wolfsbane in return for doing me a favour or two. Surely you will not mind?_

_After all, I hear Albania has wonderful tourist beaches this time of year. I am sure your pet will enjoy himself immensely. _

_Oh, come now, Severus. Do not worry yourself. He is tougher than he thinks he is, and certainly more than you think he is. It is possible that he is just what your revolution needs in order to finally defeat your Dark Lord._

_We shall see, hm?_

_Cordially,  
Yura_

***

**V. November 2, 1989. Berlin.**

Wet leaves squished under his feet as Remus made his way through the park to the centre of Märchenbrunnen, deserted except for himself and the endless rain. Damp seeped up through the soles of his shoes, chilling him to the bone even with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head ducked down low into the collar of his coat.

The fountain loomed before him like a bottomless Pensieve, dry but for the raindrops sliding down the concrete and just as depressing as any wistful memory. He paused at one side to peer in, imagining himself falling through swirling mist and landing inside his own mind, pushing the fog away and entering the vision of Severus and himself as they used to be. Pressed up against the back of the door at Spinner's End, or Disillusioned in a stale London alley, or scraping the backs of robes over tree trunks in Muggle parks – it didn't matter. The memories always ended the same, with Remus's desperate breath over Severus's neck and Severus giving up his defences and groaning against him, pulling him in close as though he would never let go.

Nearly every meeting they'd ever had had been furtive like this, stolen moments together that neither their friends nor their enemies would ever have understood, but which they would have risked everything to maintain. They _did_ risk everything to maintain them, it turned out. Remus made it his nightly mission to reduce Severus to gasps and moans, peeling back his reserve and pushing him as far as he would go until they were both panting for air and grinding against each other in desperation.

He longed to feel the fabric of Severus's torn clothing in his fist again, taste the sweat against his collarbone and watch him come completely undone with his eyes squeezed closed and Remus's name on his lips. He longed to push inside him again and curl over his back, watching the long strands of black hair fall over Severus's face as he collapsed to his elbows and pushed back, his body flushed and hard. He longed to lie quietly together afterward for the few minutes they might have left, smoking in silence until Severus finally rose to leave, the intensity in his eyes Remus's only consolation that their separations were always as hard on him as they were on Remus.

But mostly, Remus longed to look into Severus's eyes and find the courage to ask him if they could try again.

"Märchenbrunnen, Lupin? Honestly. I should have known you'd have the foresight eight years ago to pick what would become the most popular gay cruising spot in Berlin for our meeting."

All the air escaped Remus's lungs at once, and he had to close his eyes and force himself to breathe again before turning around. Severus was standing under the statue of Little Red Riding Hood, her stony face appropriately sceptical as she glanced down at the statue of the wolf behind her. He wore a dark, knee-length wool coat and a charcoal scarf around his neck, his hands in his pockets and the wind gently rustling his hair, and Remus couldn't hide the grin that spread across his face. He hesitated at Severus's words, though, tilting his head to the side.

Glancing behind him, he indeed saw a few pairs of men speaking in low voices behind the columns of the main gate, leaning a bit too close to each other and with their fingers unseen under layers of clothing. Oh. He turned back to Severus and spread his hands.

"What can I say?" he called. "My intentions are transparent."

"Are they?" Severus walked towards him to avoid shouting across the square. When he reached his side, he lowered his voice. "From what I've heard, your intentions are to help a band of rogue wizards Apparate families through the bloody Wall this week." He narrowed his eyes at Remus.

"Now how would you know anything about that?"

Severus joined Remus in gazing out over the empty, leaf-strewn fountain, and Remus had to swallow hard to avoid leaning against Severus's body and burrowing his nose in the warm skin under that scarf. "I have my sources. You didn't think I would let you run off to Eastern Europe for eight years without ensuring you weren't inciting revolution everywhere you went, did you?"

"I think I incited a few revolutions," admitted Remus.

"And have a few more planned, I suppose."

"Just a few." He paused, the smile fading from his lips. "You don't know what it's like in some of these places, Severus," he said quietly.

"No, I don't," said Severus, not missing a beat, "because I was instructed to stay away from them until today. Apparently you had to _find yourself_, or some such nonsense." Rustling in his pocket for a moment, Severus pulled one hand out at last and handed Remus a crumpled note.

He opened it and felt his heart clench. In some ways the words seemed as fresh as the day he'd written them, eight years ago, but in others, they scrawled across the small page as though penned in an unknown language. It was hard to believe he had ever written them himself. "You did as I asked," he said softly, barely able to believe it himself.

"And stayed away?"

Remus nodded, and Severus returned his gaze to the fountain. Remus wondered if he too saw the bowl of a Pensieve in it, with all the promise of old memories reproduced.

"I've always done as you asked," he said, his voice so soft on the breeze that Remus had to strain to hear it, and when he did, his heart swelled and broke at once.

He nodded again, the corners of his mouth turning down as he reached for Severus's hand. "I know." He weighed his next words carefully. Having had this long to rehearse them hadn't made them any easier to say. "It's been eight years and three days since she died," he began, nearly choking on the last words. "I need to know if you're still in love with her."

Severus was silent for a long time, gazing out at the fountain and the wet park beyond. "I've spoken with Albus," he said, pulling his hand away and not looking at Remus. "He's willing to find a position for you, if you're willing to teach something you're unqualified for."

Remus sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "And what would that be?"

"Care of Magical Creatures."

"I'm not unqualified for that," he said irritably. "I worked at a dragon preserve for two years, and I _am_ still a werewolf, you know."

Severus shrugged.

"Severus."

"No, Lupin. You cannot teach Defence, so don't even ask me."

"Neither can you."

"That is for Albus to decide."

Remus shoved his hands back in his pockets and stared at his feet. "I'm not going back until you answer my question."

He glanced out of the corner of his eye as Severus wet his lips, his brow creasing. "There is no point to me answering that question, because you think you already know the answer."

Remus nearly laughed at that, raising his eyes to the sky and mourning along with the bruised clouds that hovered close to the ground. "The things I've seen and done, Severus," he began quietly, "you have no idea. I've marched with striking dockworkers and sat in jail for it. I've dissected the bodies of my friends to figure out why they were being forcibly turned into werewolves and subject to experiments at the whim of deranged governments. I've shipped contraband potions up the Danube and I've seen the beginnings of a new Wizarding school in the Carpathians for every kid who's been denied a chance before. I've followed a trail of dead unicorns to Albania, and when I'm done here and we get this ridiculous fucking Wall down, I'm going back to Serbia to help Dragoslav figure out why so many sudden cases of _Imperius_ have turned up to make good people start killing each other for no fucking reason." His voice rose with each new item on the list, and at last, he turned to Severus and jabbed a finger in his chest. "And all I've asked of you is to give me one honest answer, for once in your life." He punctuated every word with venom: "Do you still love her?"

"Do you still love Potter?" spat Severus, his eyes blazing. "Black? Pettigrew?"

"Not like that!" barked Remus. "I never did, not the way you felt about Lily, so don't stand there and make this about–"

"But you _loved_ them," insisted Severus, "you incorrigible, stupid bloody fool." They were silent for a moment, chests heaving as they stared at each other. "When you think about them," he continued, "what happens to you?"

Remus swallowed hard, pressing his lips together.

"You run off and try to save somebody else," Severus answered for him. "Always got to go somewhere new, fight something else, don't you? But none of it will bring them back."

"Shut up," said Remus, rubbing his eyes.

"If you want me to centre your world," said Severus quietly, his jaw tight and his eyes alight, "then you must let me choose who will centre mine."

"I can't stand the thought that it's her," murmured Remus. "I loved her too, you know that, but I can't handle knowing that you–"

"It's not her."

Remus closed his mouth over his next words, his chest heaving and his eyes searching Severus's face.

Hands still deep in his pockets, Severus turned back to the fountain and the fairy tale statues and the grey cement surrounding them. "It might have been her twenty years ago, or fifteen, or even nine, but it ceased to be her a long time ago."

Taking a deep breath, Remus chanced a look over at Severus, who was still gazing out at the fountain. "The morning you woke up to a note asking you to meet me in Berlin in eight years?" he asked quietly.

Severus snorted, glancing sideways. "Before that."

Relief flooded Remus's body and he sighed, sagging into Severus's side. After a long pause he nodded. "Thank you," he murmured. "That was all I needed to know."

Severus's face remained stony as he glanced over at Remus, but his eyes betrayed everything. "I don't suppose you're coming home now," he said, and Remus's smile faded.

"Not quite yet," he admitted, "but soon. I promise." The sun was beginning to set over the dreary day, rays of pink and orange colouring the otherwise grey steps of the fountain, and Remus clung to his own resolve, determined to continue the work he'd started. "Wait for me?" he murmured.

In reply, Severus only grasped Remus's arm and dragged him, stumbling, over to the statue of Hansel and Gretel, concealing them behind it and pressing Remus up against the cool stone. He held Remus's eyes for a moment, nodding once, before leaning in to claim his mouth. The kiss warmed Remus's body from the soles of his chilled feet to the tips of his fingers, and he wrapped his hands in Severus's wool coat and pulled him in closer, parting his lips and letting everything they had been missing for eight years come to the surface against Severus's warm mouth.

In the distance, he heard sporadic bursts of gunfire and the chant of the growing crowds rising through the winter air from Alexanderplatz. He pulled back from Severus's mouth and buried his head in the thick scarf, and Severus fell over him, pressing him back against the statue and holding him tightly in his arms. They stood that way for a long time, two figures alone in a massive square in what was about to become the most hopeful city in the world. Surrounded by the smell of damp earth and the sounds of a new beginning, Remus stopped rotating for just a moment and held steady to his axis.

A new revolution was coming. He could feel it.

*

_Severus,_

_I hate to do this again, of course, but I'm needed in the Balkans. Meet me at Hogsmeade Station on September 1, 1993. Please?_

_I might arrive with a few teenagers. Do not be alarmed._

_Yours,  
Remus_

 

-fin-

 

**Notes:**  
Massive thanks to my handholding/brainstorming team (who know who they are), in particular for a werewolf idea that is in here in a slightly modified form, and for providing some ace photo inspiration of Berlin. This was also somewhat inspired by a few of the ideas about Remus in the '80s that I tossed around in [](http:)20 Random Facts about Remus Lupin, but you don't have to read that for this one to make sense.

I hope I don't need to say this, but just in case: this story means no disrespect to the people of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union who fought government injustices and faced imprisonment or death for it in the 1980s. Crediting wizards for some of it in this story is simply the work of silly fiction and does not mean to take away from the very real work that the people of this region engaged in to fight for reform.


End file.
